


like the other foot obliquely run

by jk_rockin



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Epistolary, M/M, Pilots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:51:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jk_rockin/pseuds/jk_rockin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1917 should have been perfect for Kurt Hummel. His father's business is booming, he's going to college in the fall, and he's started to get along with his ex-bully, Dave Karofsky, the son of his father's gardener. Then Dave enlists in the Air Service and goes to war, before they have a chance to set things right between them. Two months after he left, Dave writes him a letter.</p><p>Written for the 2011/12 Kurtofsky Reverse Bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like the other foot obliquely run

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! The epistolary historical AU that ate ~~Paris~~ my brain, born of hours of research and obnoxious fact-checking, much of which never made it into the final draft. This baby is pretty short, certainly by Rebang standards, but if I were so inclined it could have a bibliography.
> 
> This story takes place in a magical alternate 1917, where  
> a) a guy with no money and very limited military training would have made it into flight school before the draft,  
> b) a guy Dave's size could actually fit into the cockpit of a WWI plane, and  
> c) the Army postal service could have physically delivered this many letters during the 7 or so months the U.S. Air Service served in WWI.
> 
> Re: all other historical handwaving and fact-borrowing- a wizard did it.
> 
> Unending gratitude to my excellent beta/sounding board [Mishka](http://thegoddamnfishmouse.tumblr.com), to Wikipedia, and to the military history nerds who maintain websites about the Great War. Credit also to [irisbleufic](http://irisbleufic.livejournal.com/) and [moony](http://moony.livejournal.com/)'s [The Shape I Found You In](http://irisbleufic.livejournal.com/243305.html), without which this story would not exist.
> 
> Written for the 2011/12 Kurtofsky Reverse Bang. Title from John Donne's _A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning_ , like every other story about absent lovers.

Kurt,  
the weather in France is really grey. I was expecting sun, but it’s been raining since we got to ██████. We’re in █████ for a few days, while they get ready to move us out for more training. It’s prettier in pictures. Thank you for the phrasebook, it’s been useful. Corporal Nixon in my squad borrowed it to talk to some girls, but I managed to order coffee anyway. Sorry it took me so long to write. I bet Blaine- sorry, Leiutenant Anderson- has been writing you twice daily, probably in sonnets since he’s sophisticated. So you’ve probably had plenty to read anyway. I’d ask him, but we don’t see a lot of each other since he made rank. I’m sure we’re both real heartbroken over it.

I miss home. A lot. I miss the house and the vegetable garden and your mom’s cooking. My dad’s cooking, even. I miss you and Finn singing along to the piano, and my dad singing out of tune while he clips the hedges. Right now you’re probably making that face you make where you’re trying not to smile cause you’re trying to stay mad. If you’re not still so mad you burned this instead of reading it.

I still sometimes have trouble believing that I actually did join the Army. Somehow it feels more real now I’m here- in Europe, I mean- than it did in Basic Training. Flight school scared the dickens out of me but it was at home (Texas is a ways from home, but it is home soil, I guess), and I kept thinking that any day now the war would be over, and I would just go home again. Not that I want to go home. Flying is incredible. My squadron are all good fellows and mostly reliable pilots, which is all you can really expect- we’re some of the first Americans out here who weren’t pilots already, so everyone’s still finding their feet. Maybe I should say wings.

When you get the chance, you really should come see █████. It is a bit dreary, but the people are awfully nice and even with a war on, somebody’s singing or playing the violin or an accordion on every street corner. The buildings are beautiful- they say we won’t have time to go up the Eiffel Tower, but it’s nice to look at from a distance all the same. The cafe I’m sitting in is mostly full of Army boys, some of whom have borrowed a banjo and are singing dirty songs. It’s so different from home.

Say hello to Mr and Mrs Hummel, and Finn. I wrote my dad too, but you tell him from me to water those tomatoes more now the weather’ll be getting dry.

all my love to everyone,  
Sergeant First Class David Karofsky, ██th Squadron, U.S. Army Signal Corps Air Service

\-----

David,  
I am still so angry at you I can hardly see straight. When I see you again- if I see you again- I’m going to clock you square on the jaw, see if I don’t. How you have the NERVE to write (now, after so long without so much as a word!) and tell me to tell your father about tomatoes when you know perfectly well you should be here, watering the tomatoes yourself.

Blaine has written regularly since you both went off to flight school. Between his letters and your to your father we’ve all kept pretty well abreast of how you’re keeping over there. Thus far Blaine has managed to avoid poetry, and I’ll thank you to follow his example. There isn’t any news, so I won’t try to invent any; nothing happens here. I’m burning with jealousy that you got to see Paris before I did, and had the unmitigated cheek to say it’s DREARY and IT LOOKED PRETTIER IN PICTURES. Philistine. Blaine sent a postcard and it looks simply a dream to me. I hope you’re using the phrases I taught you, and that time amongst the glamourous French smooths your abominable accent. And I’m glad to hear they’re giving you more training- one hears horror stories of men sent out barely knowing how to fly, which you say you can already capably do.

Papa, Carole and Finn are all well. They send their regards. I suppose I’m fine too. Finn’s friends (those who haven’t joined up, that is) have been by the house a few times. Most of the girls are too busy at home to visit just now, but some of the boys from Dalton have been by. Some of their number have joined up, but there are a few stragglers left behind with me. They all have much the same news of you boys as I do- I’m not sure if Blaine’s tucked a printing press into his kit bag or if it’s his parents crowing over his quick promotion. Still I’m grateful to Papa for insisting Finn and I stay at home, and I think Finn feels the same, though he says he would have been glad to go. I feel I can tell you because you’re so far away- I’m glad, whether or not it’s honourable, that Papa isn’t disappointed that I didn’t want to go.

Mr Karofsky has most probably replied to your letter- I took it to the cottage myself- but he’s well, and the gardens are well in hand. The hedges are looking lovely. Your father has a wonderful hand with the flowers, but the vegetables miss you too. Nothing’s grown quite as well since you left us.

I have given your love to everyone at home.

 ~~love~~  
 ~~yours~~  
regards,  
Kurt Hummel

\-----

Kurt,  
You wrote me back.

I’m sorry I didn’t write. I wrote to my dad (you probably saw) but I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me until Dad wrote me saying you made him tell you where I was and how I was doing, and what with you hearing from Anderson there wasn’t too much news. Dad said you weren’t still mad at me, but I guess he was wrong. Not that I blame you.

They’ve moved us for advanced training. I can’t say where- we’re not supposed to give locations in letters, and anyway I’m not sure I could spell it. It’s been nice to get away from the new kids. Like you said, there are recruits coming over who haven’t trained at all, but the flight school here is mostly British and French officers, and other Americans who trained back home. I knew some of your buddies had joined up- Corporal Nixon, who’s been assigned to the ██th with me, was at Dalton with you and Anderson. He’s a nice guy. Nicer than Blaine, anyway. Weather’s a little better, and the people are nicer here, mostly. Still not seeing much of Anderson, who’s mostly too busy palling around with his buddy Lt. Smythe and the other officers.

You wrote me back.

You tell Finn he’s lucky he’s out of it- I keep hearing stories about what it’s like at the Front for the infantry, and to be honest I’m glad I’ll be in the air. Sometimes I do panic, remembering where I am and why I’m here, but here, I get to fly. When I get home I’ll probably never have the money to own a plane of my own, but if I did I’d take you up and show you the sky. It’s like nothing else. The whole messy stupid world opens out under you, and it’s just you and the clouds. And the rest of your patrol mates and a few thousand armed Germans, but you get my point.

The squad leader wants us for drills in twenty minutes, so I’d better sign off and drop this with the postal officer on my way to the airstrip.

Love to everyone,  
Sergeant First Class David Karofsky, ██th Squadron, U.S. Army Signal Corps Air Service

\-----

David,  
Of course I wrote you back.

I am still practically incandescent with rage, and I will probably stay angry until you come home whole and unharmed. I’m angry because you left, not because of anything you did before, do you understand? I know you’re sorry. I forgave you the moment you apologised, David, and despite what you seem to think I consider us friends. There is a whole entire David in there that nobody sees, who smiles and loves to fly and grows vegetables. Don’t pretend it’s just that you’re a gardener’s son- you make plants bloom like they’re happy to grow for you, and you would even if your father worked in a bank.

Rick Nelson (we went to school with him- I think you knew him better than I did) got killed over there last week. Infantry, I think. His parents got the telegram in the post office and Mrs Nelson had to be sat down with a glass of water. She couldn’t breathe for crying. If you die, David Karofsky, I will never ever forgive you. Sometimes I wish you’d never stopped being so awful. I’m used to worrying about Blaine, that’s no news. I had never expected to worry for you, and now I do I’m not at all sure how. If you had still been shoving me around and calling me names with your oafish friends when you left, I wouldn’t have this terrible panic in my chest. I wouldn’t be worried sick about you, you stupid boy, on the other side of an ocean, if I didn’t know the Dave who hums his father’s folk songs while he prunes roses.

I’m being silly again. I’ve spilled my tea on the page and everything. No use cleaning it up now, I suppose. You had better tell me some news in your next letter; tell me about what you’re doing. Tell me about planes. Tell me you’re being as safe as you can.

Everyone is well at home, except Papa, who had another of his turns and has been in bed for a few days, eating soup and swearing cheerfully at the doctor. If he’s still cursing like that, I guess his heart must be alright after all. Your father is well. He’s been helping Carole in the kitchen and around the house- it’s been raining plenty so there’s not so much to do in the garden, but there’s certainly lots to do inside. Papa simply must hire a new housekeeper. I keep telling him it’s not proper, the lady of a house like ours washing and scrubbing in the kitchen when she’s been married to Papa for years, but he keeps saying “We’re a family, Kurt, we can’t just go inviting people in willy-nilly”. He’s being ridiculous. There are plenty of families in this town looking for work; we should employ someone if we can. Privately I think your father agrees, but you know he’s too polite to say so. He says he’s muddling through on his own, but Carole has had him come to the house for dinner four nights out of the last week, and he’s teaching her to make Polish dumplings. (Papa seems to like them. Finn ate a whole plate himself.) I think she worries. I know I do.

be safe.  
Kurt

\----

Kurt,  
You don’t know what it means to me that you forgave me. You can’t know. I am still- I am, always, so sorry for everything I did to you. I was awful. I hurt you. I let the other guys do terrible things- some of the things I did, if your Dad found out he’d have me horsewhipped. Maybe he should have. But you just forgave me, like it was enough that I’m sorry. It’s not enough. I want to make it up to you and I don’t know how, but I promise I’m coming back, Kurt.

I have this stack of letters I wrote you on the boat that I never mailed. There was never any news, unless puking my guts out counts as news, and half of them I never finished writing. There’s all these things I thought I was brave enough to say to you, but I guess I’m not that brave after all. Until Dad wrote me I wasn’t going to write to you. I didn’t know if you’d want me to, after everything, and if you didn’t want to hear from me I certainly wasn’t going to write you saying the crazy, dangerous things I wanted to- that I still want to say to you.

The first time I flew a plane by myself, I though I was going to die, and I remember thinking that was it over with, at least. If I died in flight school I’d never have the chance to get things wrong again. I landed safely, and I passed that class. I didn’t die. Now I’m sitting in my bed having just got back from a routine patrol on which I didn’t die, and that’s what I intent to do on every patrol between now and coming home. You seem to think I’m not the guy I was at school. I hope that’s true. I want to come home and find out for myself.

You asked me about planes. I’m flying a Nieuport 28, nice and speedy, with a big Vickers gun on the front. Beats the shine off the Curtiss Jenny I flew in flight school. I don’t know how I manage to fool them into thinking I was pilot material- I love to fly, but the cockpits are only very small, and I suppose I must look rather clownish trying to cram my big bulky body into my tiny little plane. Once I’m up I do alright but it must be quite the sight.

In between my last letter and this one we’ve been moved again, and moved into combat. Please don’t panic. The ██th and the ██th (my squadron, and Anderson’s) have been bundled up with a few more into one group, so we’re all pals together again, though for now I’m still bunking with the enlisted men and Anderson has officer’s quarters at HQ. A few of the fellows went topsides on a mission in ██████████, so we’ve all got promotions- dead men’s boots, you know- and now we’re a real combat squad. Anderson and I have flown a few patrols together, and he may be a smug creep who doesn’t know a good thing when he’s looking at it but he can fly his ‘plane and shoot straight with the best of us, so I suppose he can’t be all bad. Can’t say the same of Lt. Smythe; he can fly just fine, but he’d be doing well to hit the broad side of a barn with his guns.

Colonel Christie said it would be just the like reconnaissance tours in flight school, but it’s nothing like that. From above, the lines look like the priest makes Hell sound. Every time I fly a patrol, I cross myself and thank my lucky stars I’m up in the sky, even with the archy- that’s what the British guys call anti-aircraft fire, archy, but it’s nothing worth worrying about. The artillery gunners can’t seem to hit a thing on either side, though I’m sure the fellows try.

Say hello to Finn and Mr and Mrs Hummel, and tell Mrs Hummel she should ask Dad for his recipe for braised pork knuckle. If you’re going to eat Polish, pierogi are just the start.

love to everyone,  
Second Leiutenant David Karofsky, ██th Squadron, U.S. Army Signal Corps Air Service

P.S. for the record, Corporal Wyatt, the Recording Officer, who does the mail censoring for our unit, is a standup fellow and would, I'm sure, never repeat comments about fellow officers made in personal mail.

\-----

David,  
Every time I see one of those stupid recruitment posters for the Signal Corps I want to tear it down and stamp on it. I don’t care about Europe. I don’t care about service to your country. I want you home, working in the garden and getting your big hands dirty and making things grow, like you should be. It isn’t fair that you left, just as we were getting to know one another. Just as I was starting to see you as you are, you left me to go shoot at Germans instead of being here, where you belong.

Everyone in this town is spinning themselves silly over the war. So many boys joined up or got drafted, and a handful of girls have enlisted in the Nursing Corps, too; it seems like half of Lima is gone. The market is always practically empty. People scurry past you in the street where theey used to say hello. It feels like the whole world is barrelling forward and I, Kurt Hummel, find myself stuck here, at least for another year. That lovely full acceptance to New York University I slaved myself half blind for? Deferred, with the kind permission of the Dean of Students, on the grounds that I am employed in industry essential to the war effort. Since you left, Hummel Engines now supplies parts and machinery exclusively to the military, and Finn and I are Papa’s newest employees. As essential employees in an essential industry, we are no longer eligible for involuntary military service.

Finn’s throwing himself into getting his hands dirty, naturally, but I’m mostly in the office, wrestling Papa’s decrepit filing system into something like order. Regular work for wages is a little wearying, but I’m not like you, David- I can’t go to war. I wouldn’t last a hot minute, and I know it. And so, it would seem, does Papa. So sweet boys with dirty hands like you get to go off and get shot at in countries they might otherwise never have heard of while refined, urbane young men like yours truly roll up their shirtsleeves in dusty offices and file invoices ‘til the cows come home, and never get to live the dreams they’ve worked for.

I’m sorry. I’m being silly. I know what you’re doing is important. I know the war effort is important. I’m just sick and tired of this war taking the things I want from me.

Your father misses you. Your garden misses you. I miss you. As ridiculous as that sometimes seems, I miss you, and if you have things to say to me I’d thank you to just say them before we both die of old age or you get shot by one of your Germans. There are things I want you to say to me, David, whether or not they’re appropriate or safe or sensible. I hope they’re not.

love,  
Kurt

P.S. Blaine’s told me so much about Sebastian Smythe. Almost more than one cares to know. He sounds like quite the personality.

P.P.S. Don’t think I didn’t notice the change in signature, mister. We’re all so pleased- I read out your letter at supper the other night, and the whole house is just about fit to burst with pride. A Lieutenant already! Really, David, how dashing. I know it’s terrible, but I just about cheered when I got Blaine’s last letter- he’s hopping mad that you’ve been promoted, though he won’t say so, and so is his “good buddy” Sebastian. His tone was decidedly unflattering anyway. Is it awful of me to be pleased for you?

\-----

Kurt,  
Patrols going well. The weather’s been nice and clear, which is a great advantage, but it’s good for the other side, too, so it means we all have to be careful on patrol. One of the guys shot down a Boche (that’s what the RAF boys call the Germans) plane the other day; that plus the last successful bomb raid over the lines means we’ve all been very jolly in the mess hall.

Since my promotion I’ve got a nice bunk all to myself in HQ. With a real bed! Not that I see it much. Nixon’s blue with jealousy, of course, but he’s a better turned-out Sergeant than I ever was, so it’s no great loss to the squad. Smythe and Blaine have both been pretty chilly, as welcome parties go. There’s not quite so many el-tees around the place now, so seeing as we’re thin on the ground it might do them good to buck up. There’s no official barracks here- the Pursuit Group moves around so much it’d be silly to build one- and only the officers get to stay in HQ, so he and the rest of the boys are being billeted by a real nice French family. The █████ have a farm just outside █████ with a big old barn they’ve fitted up with beds for the squad, and other than a smell of cows it’s a dandy bunkhouse. They’ve got a daughter, Sophie, who speaks awful English but is a nice girl. Half the squad are in love with her. I’m still pretty good pals with Nixon, who’s good company, and funny once you learn not to take him too seriously. He seems pretty keen on Sophie, though she’s not too fond of him.

I enclose a letter to your sister Elizabeth. You go ahead and read it- I didn't say anything I didn't mean, and I figure it's right for you to know- but don't say anything to Finn or Mr Hummel. There's a thing or two they'd sock me in the nose for if they knew, so please keep it between the two of us and Wyatt. (hi, Corporal.) Elizabeth doesn't have to write me back if she doesn't want, if I got the wrong idea, but she asked, so here it is.

love to everyone,  
First Leiutenant David Karofsky, ██th Squadron, U.S. Army Signal Corps Air Service

\----

Dear Elizabeth,  
it's going to take me a while to write this. I've already got a pile of crumpled paper where I've started and gone wrong. If I tried to say any of the things I want to say out loud, I'd probably make even more of a mess. At least on paper I can start again.

I'm sorry I kissed you. Sometimes I think about the look on your face after, and I feel sick. You were so scared- I never wanted to scare you, I swear. I didn't know what I was doing, I was half out of my mind with panic. But that's not important. I never apologised for doing that, and I'm sorry. I kissed you because I was scared, and I'm not brave enough or good enough with words to tell you out loud how I feel about you. How I've always felt about you. How angry I was that stupid mean Blaine Anderson came swaggering in, right when I was doing everything I could to stop myself wanting you, and only making things worse.

I kissed you because when you came tearing after me like that- all fire and vinegar, ready to take me on headfirst even though I’m twice the size of you- you were beautiful. Your cheeks were red, and you were so beautiful I couldn’t see straight. I wanted you to know who I was, what I am, and I wanted- well, even in a letter I can’t tell you all the things I thought when you squared up to me all flushed like that, but I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long, long time.

I guess I should be telling you’re all sweetness and light, but you’re not. And I don’t mind. You can be a real pill when you’re in a bad mood, snappy and mean, and even then I like you. Mostly you’re kind, and you don’t treat me like dirt even though I’m just your gardener. You’re good, even when you’re not too nice. All the poetry and the books they made us read in school, they made love sound like it's either really nice or it hurts like crazy. Don't know if that's how I feel, but when I look at you (or think of you, these days) I want to touch you- touch your hair, hold your hand, or hold you close. Your smile makes my breath catch. Even when you're cranky about something or you're mad at me, I want to be around you. When Dad talks about Mama, he sounds like she made him feel like that. So I guess I must be in love with you.

I love watching you. That sounds awful, but I do. The way you move, the way you walk. I could stare at you for hours. Once I found you in the library (I think I had to ask you about taking the truck to the market) and you were putting away books. I think I must have stood in the doorway for a good five minutes, just waching you sorting the pile on the reading table and putting them in their places. You were in your shirtsleeves and waistcoat, with the sleeves rolled up, and you turned around with a book in your hand. When you saw me, you smiled like you were pleased to see me. You got me to put some books away on the higher shelves, so that might have been why. That picture is fixed in my memory. You look so good to me, no matter what you’re doing, that I don’t care if it’s right for me to feel this way.

I'm also sorry I might never get the chance to punch Blaine Anderson in his smug face. I figure you can work out why I never much liked him; you might think it's secret but I saw how you looked at him. It tears me up inside. He's a creep and he isn’t good enough for you. I don't deserve you either, but at least I know it. I don’t sit around in your parlour drinking coffee and making eyes at you over the serving-table like that’s any way to behave, or swanning around the mess like the Queen of Sheba and lording it over us lesser mortals. For all I’ve a bad record with you, I don’t behave like that. I wouldn’t even if I were a smug rich boy like him- your family have money, and you don’t behave like you own everyone. I know I said that, but I didn’t mean it. Anderson does, though. The way he looks at you, I bet he’s kissed you. I bet you even liked it. The thought of it drives me crazy.

I'm not asking for anything. If I was, I might ask you to wait for me, until I get home. You can just ignore this if you want. I won't mind. You wanted to hear what I had to say, and it may have taken me an hour to get it out, but here it is. I love you, and I needed to tell you.

yours,  
Dave

\-----

David,  
you didn't get the wrong idea. I wasn't quite expecting- your bravery at writing all that is more than I expected, I mean to say. Just when I think I see you clearly, you surprise me again.

Your letter- very inventive and prudent of you, tucking it in with your usual letter home- is terrifying. You do yourself a disservice when you say you aren’t good with words. I have read it more times than I care to say, and it is the most overwhelming thing I have ever read in my life. I’ve read Roman poetry, David, and while I’m sure you’re not familiar with Catallus, allow me to assure you that parts of his work are obscene beyond polite mention. I have written papers on Catallus, but I have never blushed so much as I did while reading what you wrote to me.

Do you still have my phrasebook? Are the rest of your squad using it to talk to French girls? I wonder if you remember when I gave it to you- standing by the gate as you left, tears all over my face like someone had died. You touched my shoulder. I had no idea why I was crying; you were just the gardener’s son, a friend, someone like me. Perhaps I should have known then that you’re not just my friend, David. I don’t know if we could ever be just friends.

I went down to the cottage yesterday while your father was out. The smell of the herb bundles drying in the rafters- that’s the smell that lingers on your clothes, isn’t it? I never recognised it before. You always smell like that cottage, and like the gardens. Flowers, grass, and green things growing. A little like dirt, but not at all unpleasant; like freshly tilled earth. Your father still has your winter coat and scarf hung over the end of your bed, and they still smell like you, where they’ve touched your skin.

You must think I’m perverse, going around smelling your outergarments. I don’t know when it happened, David, but I’ve begun to miss the scent of you, and (apologies for my handwriting, my hands are shaking, isn’t that silly) if you were here I would bury my face in your neck and breathe deeply. I should like to say that I wouldn’t mean anything by it, but we both, I think, know that isn’t true anymore. If it ever was.

I miss you so much. Even when I’m angry, I miss you. Sometimes I go to call for you to ask you something, or tell you something, and every second you’ve been gone rolls over me again. Forgive me for my wandering. With you and I, it seems impossible for us to get to the point. What I mean to say by all my rambling is that I cannot deliver you an answer, because you didn’t ask me anything, but if you had, my answer would be yes. I will. Not that there is much else you can ask; things being as they are, all we really have to hope for is that you will come back to me, and make the garden bloom, and stay. I want you to come home, so I can fling my arms around you and bury my face in your neck, propriety be damned, and consider all else when we have time for thinking. I will wait as long as I have to.

yours,  
Elizabeth

P.S.: Blaine has never kissed me. I don’t think he ever will.

\----

Dear Elizabeth,  
So much for it staying between the two of us- Corporal Wyatt practically tackled me when I got back from patrol. I'd only just got my boots on the tarmac when he came running over, shoved your letter in my hand and winked. I hope to high heaven you're the only one at home reading my letters; I'm going to find it hard enough looking Wyatt in the eye. Of course, now half the Army knows. It’s no help that I’m practically singing my way to the airstrip, annoying everyone I meet, because I can’t stop smiling.

Turns out I won't be dropping many bombs on Germans after all- my squad leader, Captain St James, pulled me off bombing raids after the last one went south. Says he wants me trained in advanced pursuit- probably because my aim is so bad with bombs. I can't hit a thing with 'em. I'm finally getting back in the air after they grounded me-- I promise I’m not hurt, just a little rattled, but when you take that many bullets to the fuselage (the plane’s, not mine) they make you stay on solid earth until your knees steady. I’m on high patrol rotation for the next little while, so I guess can't be that bad a pilot altogether.

Everything’s ticking along here as best it can. The locals are pretty friendly, and the rest of the Group are from all over, so even when there’s not work to do there’s plenty to talk about. It’s nice, here. We’re still expected up at Taps and to keep ourselves properly turned out, but it’s not quite the to-do it is back at flight school, where there’s a bell ringing every other minute and drills to run and somebody yelling orders all day long. Now I’m officer class, folks expect me to do the yelling. It’s a funny feeling.

I remember every time you’ve cried in front of me. Of course I do. I’d said goodbye to my dad and your family, and was all set to go when you called my name, and there you were, crying again. I didn’t even think before I touched you. You were warm under your shirt, and your skin was so soft where my thumb brushed your neck. I sat on the bus to Ohio State with my mind whirling, staring at my fingers like I could still feel you there, wondering why it is that I always seem to leave you in tears.

You say I’ve changed, and I know you’ve forgiven me. Sometimes I wonder if I could do what I’m doing without that. I’m still all twisted up inside about a thing or two, as I think you know, but I carry who I was inside me on every patrol. He can be heavy. It isn’t just what I did to you. The Dave who left Ohio wasn’t too polite to anyone, and he was worse than that to some. Leiutenant Karofsky, though, is a whole lot lighter in the conscience, for all he spends his days shooting at folks, and he, or I guess I, he’s here because you forgave me for the wrong I’ve done.

I do love you. I’m glad I got to tell you, and I’m glad you don’t mind, but you better bet I’ll drive you nuts telling you now I know I can. I love you.

Anderson’s doing just fine; he’s been practically civil in the mess, provided he’s out from under the wing of his little friend. I’ll steer clear of the S-word for your sake. Can’t say I’m too fond of him myself. I figure Blaine knows I write to Kurt, and for all your commendable discretion, half the base knowing I write sappy letters to Kurt’s sister Elizabeth might have given him a clue. Here’s hoping he can keep his mouth shut around you-know-who.

I’m being called again- more patrols, and with less of us on duty it’s all hands on deck. I expect I’ll write again when I get back to HQ.

My love to everyone. Especial love to you.  
First Leiutenant David Karofsky, ██th Squadron, U.S. Army Signal Corps Air Service

\-----

David,  
BULLETS TO THE FUSELAGE? DAVID. You are not allowed to get shot; it is simply not permitted. Letters like the ones you have sent me may only be written by those who do not intend to be ALMOST SHOT AND KILLED.

I'm sure you're an excellent pilot. They wouldn't be giving you advanced training otherwise. Captain St James wouldn't happen to be Jesse St James, would he? I knew he'd enlisted, I even knew he’d gone to flight school, but I’d no idea he was your Captain. My friend Rachel had what she describes as a “grand romance” with him, though it was more like a dalliance. When Jesse’s name comes up in conversation Finn’s face turns rather like yours does at the mention of Blaine. I’m sure he’s a very good Captain; he seemed rather more authoritative than I personally liked, which I’m sure is an advantage in the field.

There's no need to remind me of how odious you were. I remember everything. I even remember you kissing me, in the little shed outside the cottage. I was so angry Shoving me in the halls at school was dreadful, but in my own house, really. You looked so surprised when I followed you, and you were so cruel- calling me names, saying I swanned around like I owned the place- if I were a violent person, I would have hit you right there and then. Do you remember what I said? I told you I wouldn't own you for worlds. That if I had my way, I wouldn't come within ten miles of you. I tried to imagine saying that to you now, but knowing you like I do now, feeling the way I do, David, the thought of it sickens me.

I cried then, and I cried when you left, and I’m sorry to say I’ve cried since you’ve been gone. Maybe I’m just weak and silly, but I can’t feel by halves for you. I hated you so much, and then I felt sorry for you, and now more than anything I want you here, being tall and strong for me, so much it makes me shake sometimes.

Sometimes I do wonder how you and the boy you used to be fit into the same body. Were you like this in your head, all this time, or did something change in you while nobody was looking? Maybe you're an apple tree, David. Your leaves have grown back and now you're blooming, and someday soon you'll bear fruit.

On second thoughts, disregard that metaphor. It's a bit too colourful, even for me, and some of its implications are entirely inappropriate. I might leave the horticultural mode in your far more capable hands. Tell me more about how well you’re doing, and about how little you’ve taken to Sebastian. Blaine’s latest letters, while highly informative on the topics of Sebastian’s travels on the Continent, Sebastian’s stories from his prep school in Paris, Sebastian’s favourite way to have his breakfast toast, and so on, are notably light on stories about your safety and wellbeing.

yours,  
Elizabeth

\-----

David,  
once again I find your nerve incredible. You say things are “ticking along”, when the papers say there is quite a lot going on in the war, at least some of which must involve you. Quite clearly things are more than ticking along if you haven’t had the time to write. Things “tick along” in Lima, Ohio, where I assure there is very little of note occurring, owing only in part to the lack of combat on our doorsteps.

That said, there are a few things to report. Papa has finally come to his senses and hired a housemaid. Her name is Santana. She’s Hispanic, but she speaks excellent English, and says she knows you from the market. Overall she seems entirely too freely spoken for a domestic, but she does her duties as directed and doesn’t leave soapy water all over the place like Finn does. Santana accompanies me to the market on Saturdays. It makes a nice change from driving there alone. On the way she tells the most delicious stories- to hear her tell it, half the boys in town have made untoward advances upon her! But of course she is not that sort of girl. She has a very close friend, the Pierce’s daughter Brittany, who is now often to be found about our kitchen when Santana’s daily work is done.

The house now occasionally feels like the county fair, with so many people about. Rachel drops by several times a week to see Finn- I expect they think themselves clandestine- and some of his other friends make the odd appearance. I do very little socially, save writing to you and Blaine. Though you’re neither of you as swift to reply as you were. I’ve not told Blaine about the specifics of our correspondence. He’s (I feel it’s safe to say) like me. Like us. That’s why I used to look at him like I did; I thought he was the only boy I’d ever meet who was and he was so charming and handsome- don’t make that face, he is handsome. But he thinks it’s too dangerous to so much as acknowledge oneself amongst trusted friends, let alone try to share yourself with someone. How depressing. We’ve not discussed the matter, but I expect he would tell me to stop writing to you. I have no intention of doing so.

I’d best sign off. I expect you’ve things to be getting on with, and goodness knows these parts inventories won’t check themselves.

yours,  
Elizabeth

\-----

David,  
it has been three weeks since your last letter, and I find myself so tense I am liable to scream at the slightest provocation. Nobody can bear to be near me. Santana curses in Spanish and shakes me, but I can’t be cheerful, I simply can’t. Almost everyone refrains from mentioning your name, or asking for news, because, to be candid, last time your name appeared in conversation I had to excuse myself and cry for half an hour in the linen cupboard.

Your father showed me the picture you sent him of you in your uniform. The urge to pocket it and keep it close, as though we were proper sweethearts, was overwhelming. I thought I was about to cry again. It must have showed in my face, because your father (who is normally so reserved) gave me a very manly clap on the shoulder before hurrying off to do something outside. I didn’t steal your picture. I am extremely ashamed to admit that I did borrow, for lack of a better word, your winter scarf. It isn’t stylish and one can only imagine what your father will think if he notices it missing, but it smells like you.

I think somehow it was quite unfair of you to write me that letter. You said you didn’t want anything from me, that I could just ignore it, but how? How could I, knowing how you felt, how could I just let things sit between us? When you came home- if you ever, ever come home- and I had never replied, would you have just gone on like before? Would you have come back to us?

Come to that, what would you have done if I had said I didn’t feel the same? If I had said, I don’t know, something awful. Something like the terrible things I said to you back when I thought we hated one another. Would you have just flown off forever and never come back to your father and your garden and your warm overcoat? Or could you have come back and just pretended it had never existed? I don’t know if I could have stood it, if I were you.

You poured out your heart to me, and I did the same back. How dare you, you stupid, beautiful boy, how dare you show me a glimpse of what I could have and still be gone? You should have come back a glamourous war hero, and I wouldn’t have had these weeks of aching, awful waiting, knowing where you are and how much danger you’re in. It isn’t fair at all. You gave yourself to me, David, and I don’t care what anyone says. I don’t care how dangerous it is. I don’t give a good goddamn for anything else, because I love you, David Karofsky, and if you don’t come back I don’t know what I’ll do.

Come home. Survive the planes and the bullets and the bombs and come home, in your dashing uniform covered with medals, and be mine. If you promise me you will, maybe I can go on being ridiculous and weeping in closets and wearing your atrocious scarf in all weather. If you can’t do that, then at least write me more heartbreaking letters and tell me you love me.

all my love,  
Elizabeth

\-----

David,  
please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t. I keep telling myself the Army would have notified your father, that we would have heard. Your father’s sick with worry, we all are, and there’s still no news. Even Blaine’s stopped writing. You are not allowed to die, you hear me? David the linen cupboard is sick of me and I need you to be alright.

all my love,  
Elizabeth

\-----

David,  
I read your letter to Elizabeth. She wasn’t too happy. She’s none too happy anyway, moping around the house like a ghost, and knowing how much of that is about you I’m not thrilled myself. Kurt explained a few things, like the guy reading your mail, and I read some more of your letters. I think I have a pretty good idea what’s been going on, and I just wanted to tell you: you’ve still got a home here, when you come home. My kid has a good heart, and more good sense than I have, half the time. If Kurt says you’re a good man, I’m inclined to believe him.

My Elizabeth, who died before you and Paul came to us, was a lot like Kurt. Smart, pretty as a picture, and a heart so big she could see the good in anyone. I don’t know for sure, but I get the feeling she might have taken to you. The way to write to your Elizabeth, you don’t sound a thing like the boy I remember. Not that I know you awfully well, but there’s a thing or two I’ve heard about you that paints a very different picture than what I see from your letters. Things I don’t expect your dad knows, and things you and me are going to have a nice long chat about when you get yourself home.

I know Elizabeth isn’t quite like other kids. They say it’s not what God intended- hell, apparently there are doctors who say it’s some kind of disease- and I can’t say as I understand it, but I know I raised my child right. Hummels know their minds. Elizabeth doesn’t think it’s wrong to love someone, and that doesn’t sound crazy to me. I’m not saying I wouldn’t want Elizabeth to get married and have a family someday, but what I want before anything, Dave, is for my child to be happy. If you can make Elizabeth happy, if you can treat her right as best you can, you’re square with me.

I don’t know how much Paul knows, but for you sake I won’t say anything to him. That’s your job.

Burt Hummel

\-----

David,  
on one hand I’m thrilled that Papa took it so well, but on the other, if you do not write me back and tell me you are alive I am either going to scream until I am sick or I am going to stow away on the next boat to France and come find you myself.

The house is fine. The garden is fine. The family is fine now will you please come home.

your Elizabeth.

\-----

Dear Mr. Paul Karofsky,

I regret to inform you that your son, First Leiutenant David Karofsky (U.S. Mil. Av.) of the 27th Squadron, has been injured in combat. He received severe shrapnel damage to the left thigh after an aerial battle, during which his plane was shot down by the enemy. He is recovering in hospital; I understand his doctors are optimistic. Naturally this is not the first time Lt. Karofsky has taken fire in the field, but unless he is very lucky, his leg will unfortunately no longer stand combat.  
Based on the reports, he was shot down while leading an enemy squadron away from his own formation, affording them time to escape. When he recovers he will be decorated with the Distinguished Service Cross and honourably discharged from military service.

David is a personal friend of mine, an excellent aviator, and a good man. His actions in the field, both on this mission and throughout his time with the Air Service, have brought honour to his squadron and his country. The best could not have done better. I am very proud to have had him in my squad. He will be missed on base. The war effort will miss him. You should be proud of him, Mr. Karofsky.

regards,  
Captain Jesse St James  
27th Squadron, 1st Pursuit Group  
U.S. Army Signal Corps (Air Service)

\----

**FIELD SERVICE POST CARD**

**NOTHING is to be written on this side except the date and signature of the sender. Sentences not required may be erased. IF ANYTHING ELSE IS ADDED THIS POST CARD WILL BE DESTROYED**

**[Postage must be prepaid on any letter or postcard addressed to the sender of this card.]**

I am ~~quite~~ well.  
I have been admitted into hospital

{ ~~sick~~ } and am going on well  
{ wounded } and hope to be discharged soon

I have received your { letter }  
{ ~~telegram~~ }  
{ ~~parcel~~ }

Letter follows at first opportunity.

~~I have received no letter from you ~~~~~~

{ ~~lately~~ }  
{ ~~for a long time~~ }

 **Signature only:** First Leiutenant David Karofsky, 27th Squadron, U.S. Army Signal Corps.


End file.
